Editor’s note: This article is a humor column.
If you are reading this article, odds are that you — or your parents — are paying tuition to attend the University. Perhaps you are on financial aid, or maybe even here on a scholarship. Regardless of the amount of crippling debt you’ll have after graduation, I’m sure you'll be astounded to know that I require none of these things — for I have been a humble auditor at this university for the past two years.
The wonderful people of Wikipedia define an audit as “an educational term for the completion of a course of study for which no assessment of the performance of the student is made nor grade awarded.” I have taken over 80 credits in such a manner, and by my own estimations, I maintain a hearty GPA of 3.92.
I have the privilege of auditing a rigorous double major in Commerce and Prophetic Dreams, the latter being a major of my own creation combining classes in the neuroscience and Religious Studies departments and inspired by the prestigious, free-form course selection process at Brown University. I’m even auditing a minor in technology ethics — ChatGPT told me that’d be a good idea!
You may ask, “Why the hell would anyone ever do that?” Well, you see, I come from a long line of Charlottesville Wahoos. They say we may even be descendants of CavMan himself. But alas, upon applying early decision to the University, I was flat-out rejected … not even deferred. At least a deferral would have given me hope that I would eventually be accepted like my great uncle Newcomb was after he was deferred from the University! But no, the opportunity to be optimistic was stripped from me right off the bat.
Maybe it was because I gave up on the reading section of my SAT and started drawing Kyle Guy shooting his winning free throws. Maybe it was because I wrote my Common App essay about why Thomas Jefferson would have beaten Alexander Hamilton in a UFC-style mixed martial arts match — had they had those back then. Regardless, I could not lose HonorTM in the eyes of my family, so I hatched a most devious plan to fake my acceptance.
I told my parents they need not worry about moving me in, and with nothing but a bindle on my shoulder, I made the five-minute walk from our Charlottesville estate to Jefferson’s Academical Village.
When I wasn’t drinking, I spent much of Wahoo Welcome week looking for a building offering food, comfortable furniture and all-around vibes — this is how I discovered the humble Shannon Library, my home for the first year of college life. Dodging facilities staff, I’d sleep on the “Harry Potter Room” couches when I could. When worst came to worst, I’d simply spend the night at the family mansion and work as a commuting auditor.
While I had no meal plan, the wealth my father inherited from the family whaling business was more than enough to pay for Saxbys, Bodo’s and the occasional Trinner. Thus, I was able to spend my first year in comfort, attending classes and football games like any other student. Having to actually buy tickets to stand on the “4th side” at every game was a bit exorbitant, but I made it work — whaling is a very profitable industry.
I remember once during my first year when some Tootsies — that’s what I call those fools who pay tuition — asked me where I was living and I told them, “Shannon.” We planned a pregame to go out and everything, but they never did show up that night. This is how I learned of Shannon dormitory. From then on, I’d tell people I lived in Brown College. I was never asked to host a pregame again.
Later that year, I decided to rush a fraternity and ducked registration with the Inter-Fraternity Counsel. I didn’t want any of their silly bureaucratic stuff like “credit-hour requirements” or “risk management protocols” to get in the way of my having a good time. My father and his father before him — and probably CavMan, if you go back far enough — were brothers at St. Anthony Hall fraternity, so that was my dream house going into rush. My drouse, if you will.
However, once again, I brought shame unto my lineage. I only got a bid from St. Elmo Hall fraternity. Such a shame, a shame! Reluctantly — and lying to my parents once again — I accepted that bid and became a pledge. They did nothing bad to me at all that semester! Nope, nothing but the joys of brotherhood, you know? That’s Elmo’s world!
Anyway, that was the price I paid to find housing, and I moved onto Sesame Street for the second year of my auditing journey. Living with the Bert and Ernie chapter of Delta “Snuffleupagus” Phi has certainly been an improvement over Shannon Library, though the “Harry Potter Room” couches do make that comparison fairly close.
But yeah, life is good. Trained in the fires of Instagram comment sections, I got into the Jefferson Literary and Debating Society by responding to all of their arguments with non-sequitur GIFs that I pulled up on my phone. Impressed by my debating skills, they overlooked the “@gmail.com” tag trailing my computing ID and guided me through the membership process.
As a rising third-year from humble beginnings, I am now the front-runner for the Society’s Lawn Room 7, an accomplished double major and a proud member of St. Anthony Hall fraternity — if you ask my parents, that is. In case you’re wondering, I’ll cross that whole “diploma” bridge when I get there.
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